Gifts and Glory
by Merellia
Summary: Thrice asked," Jareth said, and smiled. This is a one-shot meditation on "what did Jareth get up to 1300 years ago when he was younger?" with a brief cameo by Sarah.


His skin was still damp from their recent exertions. Propped against the bolsters, sheets around her waist, Sarah trailed a finger along the planes of his shoulder, a topography only slowly becoming familiar. She thought it would always be in need of exploration. She fumbled her way through a question, distracted by the silvery glimmer of dim light along his skin, inhumanly smooth under her fingertip. "You're--pretty old, aren't you?"

Jareth, head resting on crossed arms, turned to face her, his expression sardonic. "Such pillow talk, my lady." He added caressingly, "Is that a comment on my performance?"

She flushed, breath catching in mingled dismay and at the sensations _that_ particular tone of his evoked, suddenly glad of the thick hangings about the bed that kept out the light, kept them both in shadows. "Oh! No, not--not at all." She wanted to pull the sheets up to her neck, but stubbornly resisted the impulse. "I just--wondered what it was like. When--when you were little."

Jareth pushed himself up on his elbows, mouth wry with amusement. "I? Little?" he asked with enough meaning in his voice that Sarah flushed again, trying not to squirm with embarrassment. He was her husband, for heaven's sake! And she no child. But he seemed to have a magical talent for knowing how to get under her skin.

"You know what I mean," she said, keeping her voice light with an effort. "I like stories."

"Hm." Jareth reached out and flicked aside a dark curl of her hair, ran a finger along the curve of her breast. "Yes, you do like . . . stories."

"_Jareth_," she said, caught up in exasperation and pleasure. She shifted, legs sliding against his, sheets rustling between them.

He stretched over and kissed her, tongue wet as he slid a warm hand over her stomach and, slowly, down. "I do not think," he said between kisses, "that--now--is the time--for stories."

Her hair slid over her shoulders as she reached for him, desire kindling. "Yes," she agreed, breathless. "Later, then."

"_Much_ later, lady," Jareth said.

--

Night had closed in when Jareth suspected that he was still a half-a-day's walk from Aachen, and the nearest gateway to the Underground--a hilltop oak, he thought, nearly beyond his range of sensing--farther still. It was easy enough for him to see in the night, even without the moon's light, and he could have kept walking but for catching sight of a fire-flicker in a copse to the road's side. He smiled.

A gesture banished the day's road-dust from his clothes and hair, and another gesture a few steps later left him suitably accoutered with sword and horn, wallet and knife. He looked wealthy, and he knew it; he looked too clean-shaven, too neat to have been long on the road, and he knew it.

A walk of a few moment's from the dirt path that passed as a road on good days took him to the shadowed outskirts of the fire. He took care to tread on a stick and snap it, waiting until both horses and both men had turned their heads in his direction before stepping fully into the firelight. He bowed, appreciating even without seeing how the flickering light glittered on the embroidery of his cloak and tunic, shone on the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword, the bosses of its sheath, the jeweled bands of his horn, the gold of his hair. Straightening, he smiled at the two humans. "May I claim a space at your fire for the night, sirs?"

The two men exchanged a glance. They wore hose of a similar walnut brown, but the tunic of one was a common yellow, while the other's was madder red. That, and the shine of silk in the belt around his waist and hose-laces revealed his higher station, as did his companion's silent deference to his opinion. He gestured at a log that left the two men between their horses and Jareth. "Sir, be welcome."

The second man rose and stepped to their horses, bending to pull a wrapped package from the saddlebags carefully set nearby. As Jareth settled comfortably on the log, flipping his cloak out so that he would not sit atop and wrinkle it, the second man approached, offering the loaf he had retrieved. "Break some bread with us, sir?" he asked.

Jareth inclined his head in acknowledgement, concealing his inward amusement as he accepted the loaf and tore a chunk from its heel. Such human superstitions as this would neither bind him nor bare him. He would reveal himself when and as he chose. "My thanks, sir."

"Drink?" the other asked, and at Jareth's nod he was tossed a leather bottle that proved to carry a sweet, well-watered Rhenish when Jareth filled the gold cup he took from his pouch. Christians, then, twice over: for these humans' church had banned ale as pagan some while back, Jareth vaguely recollected.

He felt the eyes of both men dwell on the cup, a vessel obviously too precious and unsuitable for travel, and smirked inwardly. Really, humans were too easily baited. "Again, my thanks. The day's walk has been long," he added with deliberation, knowing that the men would view his appearance in direct contradiction of his claim, true though it was.

"Come you from the villa, sir?" asked the man in the yellow shirt.

Jareth shook his head. "It's to there I am headed. I've heard tell of Carolus' chapel and have a desire to see the marvel for myself." His cup hid his smile as he took another sip of the wine. They knew not what to think of him now, for no devil nor demon yet would plan so boldly to visit a consecrated space. "And you, sirs?"

The wealthier of the two men pulled sticks away from the iron tripod suspended above the fire and slid meat--rabbit by the scent of it--from them onto the platter his companion had fetched. "We left there this afternoon. Made slow time of it to fetch his sword from the smith," he added, jerking his chin towards his companion, who passed the platter along to Jareth.

Jareth unsheathed his knife and glanced down to cut the meat, slyly observing the men through his eyelashes as they took in the glitter of its sapphire-studded pommel. He handed the second man back the platter to share the meat around, letting his glance flicker over the man's sword, still worn at his hip. "Worth the delay, of that I am certain," he said with purposeful dismissiveness.

The man's brown eyes flickered in acknowledgement of Jareth's implied criticism, but it was the first man who replied. "Yes, I see you thinking it's one not so fine as yours," he said with a bit of heat. "But we go in search of one greater still. I would set its blade against yours any day, sir! No matter how fine." He ignored a warning look from his companion.

"What blade is this, sir?" Jareth stretched his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles, as he began to eat, taking the rabbit's meat from the bone with neat, sharp bites, holding it carefully to keep its juices from dripping to his wrist or falling on the fine weave of his tunic.

"Why, Durendal!" The man's excitement overbore his earlier caution, and he gestured expansively with his cup. "It is my cousin Maugris' sword, and he had it from the woman who raised him, and she from Hector of Troy. I have sworn to put it to the service of my uncle Carolus, that we might fight heathens with it in my hand, for it has in its hilt a tooth of Saint Peter, you know."

"Indeed, a sword with a most remarkable lineage," Jareth commented politely, inwardly mulling over the man's comments. "And you claim kin to Maugris and Carolus both, sir?"

"It's so. I am Roland, son of Milon of Sutri, and my lady mother sister to the emperor."

Jareth widened his eyes as if impressed, though the human kinships meant nothing to him. "And you, sir?" he asked of the other man.

He, more prudent than his friend, shook his head. "I'm not nearly so elevated as my companion," he said, declining to offer his name. "But you, sir," he added pointedly, "You seem familiar enough with our lord's name. Have you family near the villa?"

Jareth smiled in appreciation of the other's adroit maneuvering for a name. "I claim no kin in this area," Jareth said with a challenging glance at him. It would take a better questioner than he to trip Jareth into revealing his name--but Jareth enjoyed sincere effort nonetheless. It was so amusing when humans tried to match him in canniness. "I have been long abroad in strange lands, and it is merely the love of new sights that draws me here." He took a sip of the wine. "Though no meritorious purpose, such as pilgrimage, compels me."

Roland's companion stared at him, brows drawing together worriedly as Jareth negated any guesses he might be forming, incidentally confirming the worse of the man's speculations. Jareth reveled in the satisfaction of his plan falling into place.

Before either man could comment or press Jareth further for details of his origins, Jareth nodded to Roland and said, "This woman you mentioned, she who once had the sword Durendal. She must herself be remarkable to bring together the holy saint's relic and the blade of the best of Trojan warriors. A story fitting for an evening like this one, perhaps?" he asked, intentionally trampling on the expectation that guests offer entertainment in exchange for food and fire.

"Well, I know not whether she did so or some smith or saint before her," admitted Roland, not appearing discomfited by the question, and chewed some more on the haunch he held in his hand. One of the horses whickered contentedly to its herdmate, in between ripping up mouthfuls of grass for their own meal.

"But how did she, a woman, come to be in possession of such a sword?" Jareth pressed. He used the last of his bread, a flavorful black rye, to sop the juices from his fingers and knife blade. Roland's type was familiar to him--he had seen such a man a time or two before during the last few decades of his wandering Above. Eager for glory, eager for battle, a man of simple beliefs, uneasy with what he could not see or fight or touch. In the hands of a strong leader, a warrior of much worth . . . but still with flaws. He was perfect.

Here Roland hesitated. When his companion snorted a wordless comment, he sighed and said, "My cousin says she's of the fairy kind and had it from Hector himself."

"Really? Fairies," he added on a disapproving note, masking his inward surprise. He had heard many of his kind were abroad in the lands of the Gauls and Franks of old, but to give up a treasure such as this sword, provided the story were true, was quite unusual--unless the sword were cursed, which its incorporation of a Christian relic argued against. "How . . . extraordinary."

"I find it surprising that you should say that, sir," Roland's companion commented quietly, but Roland frowned, saying, "It is so my cousin says, and he is a truthful man, sir! Perhaps you, being far abroad, have not heard of his struggles, but around here we know of his loyalty to my lord Carolus and honor him for it. He is a man I am proud to call kin."

Jareth said soothingly, "I meant no slight on your family, sir, and as you say I have been . . . out of the touch of men." He smiled, deliberately showing the sharpness of his teeth, and saw Roland's companion take note. "Your cousin's--mother?--must be an unusual woman indeed."

Roland cracked a bone between his teeth, sucking out the marrow before tossing it into the fire. "She found my cousin when heathens had killed his family and his father, the Duke of Aigremont," he said, watching the fire as if he could see the story illuminated in its flickering light. His friend kept eyes on Jareth. "Oriande le Fee of Rocheflor. She is a lady devoted unto him, and has shown her love with the gift of the sword Durendal and the horse Bayard."

Jareth's eyes narrowed in distaste. He had heard of Oriande and her fixation on a human. It explained the unreasonable gift-giving, but to hand such treasure into the hands of a human, with their short lives. . . . Jareth had yet seen only a few generations pass, and only a couple since he had decided to wander Above for his amusement, forsaking the dreariness of his father's keep, but already humans struck him as too prone to forgetting what was important, and careless with both their and others' belongings. "And this sword?"

"It should be in Christian hands, and not in the possession of some fairy woman," Roland said, rubbing a hand over his full moustache to clear it of crumbs and grease. "I mean to ask my cousin for it, and take it to battle when my lord marches against the pagans of Al Andalus."

Oriande, 'some fairy woman'! Truly, humans deserved whatever misfortunes were visited upon them. Some of his anger must have shown on his face, for Roland's companion inserted a comment before Jareth could respond: "It is said that Durendal will neither splinter nor break in the hands of one descended from Troy, and we descend from Aeneas. The holy relics it bears suit best to fight pagans, and," he said with a pointed look at Roland, "that the lady Oriande gave it in token of her love means that it bears no taint of ill-wishing from its passage among the fair folk."

The implications of the man's comment were not lost on Jareth, though Roland seemed to shrug them off as he poured himself another drink of wine. Jareth sneered inwardly and shifted his seat on the log, making the gold bands around his ivory horn glint in the firelight. "Indeed, it sounds the very marvel." He added silkily, "Although a sword is limited, for it brings but one blade to a battle."

"A good sword completes the good knight, and that, a righteous cause, and a good lord, is the best to which a man can aspire," Roland's companion said firmly.

Roland swallowed wine, his features heavy in the shadows cast by the firelight. He said to Jareth, "How now, sir, what do you mean? If one fights with Durendal, what more could one ask?"

Jareth allowed himself a thin smile. "A man can only fight with one sword, but a horn, now--the right horn--can summon many blades to a fight, and so must be granted greater value than a sword . . . no matter the relics it bears. But," he said, gesturing a graceful acknowledgement to Roland, golden cup in his hand, "I thank you for sharing the story of such a marvel with me, your guest."

"Yes," said Roland. "Guest, and welcome." He looked at Jareth steadily, and Jareth saw the ever-present gleam of human greed in his gaze. "What you say interests me . . . guest."

"Why," Jareth replied lightly, "I myself have such an olifant, fashioned from a unicorn. I am one, but with it I can summon many. Therefore I consider myself most fortunate, for a man is known by the company he keeps."

Roland's companion straightened, wariness evident on his face as he watched Jareth. "Roland."

Roland brushed off his friend's warning, glance dropping to the long curve of the horn that hung from Jareth's belt from a chain of gold links. "Yes." His eyes, blue-black in the firelight, flicked up to catch Jareth's. "And you have given nothing in exchange for your food and fire . . . guest."

Jareth smiled again. "Let me offer you a gift, then, sir."

"Your horn."

"Roland, don't!" His companion grabbed Roland's sleeve, only to be shook off as Roland stood.

"My olifant?" Jareth glanced at it as if surprised. "Sir, let me offer you gold. Or this knife I carry, which has an edge that never dulls. My wallet is never empty. I have much, I can give much . . . but I would not recommend the horn to you."

"It's the horn I want," Roland said implacably, looking down at Jareth.

Jareth spread his arms in acceptance. "You ask it a second time. But, sir, let me warn you: he who blows this horn will receive its aid, but no glory."

"Roland, don't, the man's a fairy, can't you see? Look at him! Listen to him! It's cursed--take _nothing_ from him."

"I'll take what he gives, and it will be well out of his hands. A man makes his own glory. The horn. Sir."

Jareth rose. The purple of his tunic, the dark blue of his cloak, both looked black in the firelight, he knew, and it pleased him to think of the image he portrayed, dark-clad, hair shining in the firelight, face pale and eyes sharp: wholly other, strange and dangerous. "Thrice asked. The horn is yours, sir."

It came free of his belt at the touch of his hand and he held it out to the human, its curving length yellow in the flickering illumination cast by the fire. The intricate chasing of leaping deer and fretted knotwork around the horn appeared to twist and dance in the shifting shadows, but all stilled for a moment as Roland reached out and took it in hand. "Thank you, sir."

Jareth bowed with a grace never seen in the court of Carolus and said, "I hope you meet your end still holding that sentiment, sir." He glanced from Roland to his companion's horrified face and back. He smiled. "I find it in me to continue my journey tonight. The moon is bright. Nourished by your food and kind company, sirs, I feel certain I will reach my destination in good speed. God speed your travels."

Wordlessly pulling power around himself, he vanished from their sight, watching with delight as realization registered itself at last on Roland's features. He slipped through the trees back to the road, filled with satisfaction at the success of his plan. Having the human actually ask for what he knew beforehand would bring him no good! He took ever greater enjoyment from this plan each time it succeeded.

Perhaps he wouldn't bother with Carolus' chapel after all; he'd had pleasure enough in this encounter with Carolus' men. He'd heard something about a mistress of the labyrinth in Crete, paid more in honey than all the gods together. Perhaps he would investigate that. He liked honey.

--

It was a couple hundred years or so later when a singer arrived in the Labyrinth and sang before Jareth. The ruler of the Labyrinth raised his eyebrows in surprise as the singer announced the title of the piece, and continued to smile throughout.

"Roland, Companion, sound the olifant, I pray;

If Charles hears, the host he'll turn again;

The king will come with all his barons to help."

Roland replies: "Never, by God, I say,

For my misdeed shall kinsmen hear the blame,

Nor should sweet France fall into evil fame!

Never! Never! Stout blows with Durendal I'll lay,

With my good sword that by my side doth sway;

Till bloodied over you shall behold the blade.

Felon pagans are gathered to their shame;

I pledge you now, to death they're doomed today."

"I suppose he changed his mind," Jareth murmured, and laughed.

--

Much, much later, Sarah rested against his shoulder in the privacy of their bed, half-drowsing in the sleepiness that followed their coupling. "Lady, in answer to your question I shall sing you a song," Jareth said, and laughed again.

--

Historical note: the verse quoted above comes from the _Song of Roland_, one of the most famous and popular of medieval epics. The _Song_ focuses on the historic battle of Rencesvals in 778. Roland was Charlemagne's greatest knight, but his refusal to summon aid until too late resulted in the deaths of his entire host, including his best friend Oliver (the unnamed companion in the story here and the man who addresses Roland in the verse above). According to one variation of the _Song_, when Roland finally sounded the horn, the pressure of winding it caused his brains to burst from his ears and thus he died. His desire for personal glory overwhelmed his prudence and his concern for the men who fought under him. It seemed a natural fit that Jareth would have a hand in passing along a dangerous tool that exploited Roland's weakness, and writing this story satisfied a little of my curiosity about what Jareth might have been doing, and might have been like, before he became king of the goblins.


End file.
